


Bleeding Heart

by NorroenDyrd



Series: And at Last I See the Light [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, An Unexpected Engagement Quest, Declarations Of Love, Duelling, Engagement, F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fluff, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Mature Inquisitor, Melodrama, Middle-Aged Inquisitor, POV First Person, Romantic Fluff, Self-Doubt, Tenderness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love, duel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: Inquisitor Maedhros Lavellan, who is not exactly young and not exactly a warrior, finds himself overwhelmed during the duel with Lord Otranto - but not as much by the latter's better combat prowess as by his own feelings for Josephine, whom he deems to be too good for him.





	

The burning feeling continues to spread, sinking its invisible claws into my side, making it hard to breathe. I did not quite register it at first, that sudden, stealthy thrust below my arm, which came in the middle of my calculating a move that (as I so recklessly assumed) would slice the shemlen noble right in the middle of his chest. But I never got a chance to pull off that move, and to prove that even a rusty old mage like me can handle a duel without falling back on the familiar spellcraft to aid me. Instead, there came a metallic clang of my rapier against the stone, and a dizzying swirl of blue as I seemed to trip over something, staggering at the sudden impact, and the ridiculously ornate towerlets of the market square all blended into one before my eyes - and finally, the painful throb at the back of my skull as my head hit the pavement. And here I am, lying on the ground, my stinging eyes turned towards the tilted sky, while my own blood gathers underneath me in a hot, sticky puddle. Disarmed. Defeated. Disgraced.  
  
I know, somewhere in the depths of my half-stunned mind, that the wound is not that grave, and all I have to do is slightly raise my arm and cast a simple healing spell, which would close it just in time before I lost too much blood and slipped into unconsciousness. But I don't do it, remaining sprawled at the shemlen's feet, motionless and completely at his mercy. Because... Why bother? Why bother shaking my limp, pathetic self into shape; why bother healing myself? This is not what matters.  
  
What matters is that I have failed. I have proved unable to put into practice all that my friends tried so hard to hammer into my head in the short, fast-fleeting days before the duel. I have insulted Blackwall and Cassandra, who did their utmost to help me handle a weapon that I have never even held before in my life; and I have insulted Vivienne, who so graciously offered to teach me the basics of duel etiquette (which, in Orlais at least, apparently mattera even more than knowing how to use a sword). I have lost the fight - I have lost Josephine.  
  
Throughout all my life, fate has heaped most fortuitous surprises into my lap, which I never deserved - and which slipped through my fingers the moment it came to light just how unworthy I was. First, I got the honour of being one of the youngest Keepers in my clan's history, granted to me simply because my predecessor passed into the Beyond earlier than any of us expected, and I just happened to be the oldest of his three apprentices. And then I lost my entire clan, leaving them to fend for themselves when they needed me most, and returning to find every last one of them slaughtered by an abomination that my Second had turned into. Afterwards, followings years of wandering the wilds all on my own, drifting like a tumbleweed and unable to take root anywhere, I chanced to become branded with otherworldly magic, which led some superstitious humans to believe that I was a prophet, worthy of heading their cause. But that belief turned out to be ill-placed, when Haven, where, for the first time in my life, I began to feel at home, was devoured by dragon fire, and so many of the people that once looked up to me as their savior, their beacon of hope among all the demonic madness, were reduced to ash by the spells of the Venatori. And now, when a young, beautiful, gentle woman, for whatever inexplicable reason, noticed and accepted my fumbling expressions of admiration, and, for a short while, made me feel such beautiful, wondrous bliss that I could scarcely believe I was not dreaming - I have made a detestable public spectacle of myself, showing that I cannot even stand up for myself when this bliss is about to be taken away. So let it be taken away - let that shem gloat over his victory while I lie on the ground, bleeding, and then walk away, leaving me in the dust, and bond himself with Josephine, the way her parents want to. Most likely, they would not have chosen him if he did not deserve the honour. He will make Josephine happy the way I never could have done. He is young and strong and determined; he is her social equal; and he is not tainted by constant failures. He... He is not me.  
  
A frightened outcry makes some of the oppressive fog inside my mind ebb away; recognizing the voice, with a shattering pang in my heart, I lift myself up slightly to look around, and then sink down heavily again, succumbing to my pain and bitterness. Josephine has made her way through the crowd towards the square, breathless and wide-eyed, not hesitating to push at people who block her path (which is so unlike the tactful, impeccably reserved Josephine that I remember). Having sunk to her knees by my side, apparently not caring about the blood and the dirt that will inevitably sully the delicate gilded fabric of her attire, she is now holding me up, her grip frantically tight, her eyes seeking to catch mine. And when they do, my heart contracts forcibly - as though that is where my wound is; as though that is what's bleeding inside of me, each drop so dark and so very heavy. Oh Josephine, dearest Josephine, I am so sorry you had to see me like this. You must be profoundly disappointed - and I don't blame you. I was not meant for this; I was not meant for you - and this fiasco of a duel just serves as proof that I have never deserved your affection.  
  
'You needn't worry, my lady,' my victorious opponent remarks reassuringly, with an elaborate, many-tiered bow, complete with the sort of foot-shuffling that used to draw many hissing curses out of me when Vivienne tried to get me to learn it.  
  
'I know my swordplay: this is just a flesh wound, intended to bring the duel to a conclusion. We did agree to fight until the first blood'.  
  
To be able to reply to him, Josephine first has to draw a long breath, her normally soft brown eyes burning underneath knitted eyebrows.  
  
'Go. Find. A. Healer,' she says through her teeth, making the startled noble backtrack from the scene, with more bows and some sort of prolonged, jumbled apology.  
  
With him out of sight, Josephine turns back to me. Her expression is still full of seething anger - so much so that I suddenly feel like a scolded schoolboy, and hurry whip up what strength I have left and start casting that overdue healing spell.  
  
'He was right,' I whisper, hoping that she can hear my voice. 'Just a flesh wound'.  
  
Josephine, however, disregards that; shaking her head gravely, she tightens her grip on my shoulders and asks, her voice quivering,  
  
'Why? Why did you put yourself into danger like this? With... With respect, milord, you are not a warrior - what if you were overpowered? What if...'  
  
Something seems to snap inside her, and she falls silent.  
  
It takes me a while to reply to her; even though my healing spell has taken full effect, my heart still feels like it is bleeding.  
  
Sweet Josephine... You ask me why I did this - and how can I give you a short, succinct answer?  
  
I did this because, when I first got the news of your engagement, I hung my head on my chest in silent resignation, and headed for the tavern, fully intending to spend the next few hours wallowing in my misery and as much ale (or whatever it is humans drink) as I could stomach - but then, I ran into Varric, and he asked me, 'Do you really intend to give up on her... Just like that?'... And I looked at him long and hard, and, something bright and forceful and obstinate stirring within me, responded (unexpectedly even for myself) with a curt 'No'. And there must have been something in my eyes that drew a sniff out of a passing Cassandra, who swooped up on me and dragged me off to the training yard to prepare for the upcoming duel for your hand.  
  
I did this because, after years of being used to no touch other than the clawing grip of hostile wildlife and the heavy blows of even more hostile shemlen and (occasionally, when I was still young), the imperious caress of other, seemingly less hostile shemlen that sought a pretty elven toy for themselves - there was nothing more staggeringly surprising than the warmth of your fingers against my temples when, still in Haven, you helped me try on those eyeglasses you had procured for me, noticing how much I squinted at the Inquisition scouts' missives. This gentleness, this softness, this light, soothing feeling left me so stunned that you grew worried for a moment, asking me if the glasses had actually made me see worse - to which I replied, with what had to be my first smile since the formation of the Inquisition,  
  
'No, on the contrary... Now I see much better'.  
  
I did this because I smiled again, quietly and tentatively, when, hovering in the doorway of the war council room in Skyhold, I saw you lean over the map and wonder what lay beyond the borders traced on the parchment image of Thedas. At that moment, for the first time in my life, all my restless travels in search of a place to belong did not seem like a burden weighing down upon me: I began to view them as memorable, exciting experiences that one day, when I drummed up enough courage to clear my drying throat and string words together, could perhaps be shared with an eager child of seafarers that, underneath the gilded mask of a courtier, still felt the call of unexplored corners of the map.  
  
I did this because spending so much time alone has left me with so few words to share with other people, each attempt to open my mouth and to engage in conversation requiring a tremendous amount of effort - and yet you, so quick-witted and accomplished in the Game, did not dismiss me for my inability to speak coherently and eloquently, instead appreciating my (far greater) ability to listen. You shared your innermost thoughts with me, your daily worries and your hopes for the future - and please believe that I have heeded everything you chose to say to me, gathering all your precious words like... how does Dorian put it...like little jewels.  
  
I did this because, even now, I still cannot fully come to terms with the thought that my coarse, awkward hands actually got to stroke your perfect skin, lingering to trace each of your enchanting birth marks. Or that my greying hair actually got to be brushed by your gentle fingers; or that my lips, so thirsty for you and so afraid of their own thirst, actually got to kiss you, my beautiful Josephine. Maybe, in your eyes, it has been nothing but a tryst, like the ones you confessed to have had a-plenty during your time as a bard - but to me... Ah, to me, it has been like coming into the welcoming golden glow of the campfire on a cold, stormy night, and sensing a wave of contentment flow through my tired, aching old bones.  
  
I did this because I... No, wait - I think there actually is a way to explain myself to you, in but three short words. They might well turn out pathetic, like this whole duel has been - but if I do not get them out now, before the victor returns and takes you away from me, I may not get another chance. And then, there will be no explanation to give at all.  
  
It is three words both in common and in Elvhen; I choose the latter, knowing that now (thanks to my modest efforts) my dear Josephine's knowledge of the tongue will suffice to understand - both the meaning, and the special weight I put into each word. Perhaps like this, my explanation will not ring as hollow, and be less like a quote from a cheap romance novel.  
  
'At lath ma'.

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, those who played through Josephine's romance know that, hearing that she and the Inquisitor genuinely love one another, Otranto will renounce all claims on Josephine's hand. But the silly elf is just way too pessimistic about his personal life.


End file.
